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Deimos
I'm headed for
the back hangar almost before Big Air hits the ground, prompting an acerbic
remark from Fidget. Alex cuts her off with something, but I ignore them
both. The pattern of their words nags at me, begging to be deciphered...
No. Not right now. If I get sucked into one more complexity right now,
I'm going to lose it. And I promised myself a long time ago that I wasn't
going to let it happen anymore.
Into the hangar,
grab my gear-- stowed right by the hatch, thanks, Alex-- and out the door
before the dust has settled. I realize I'm almost running across the mesa,
and force myself to slow down, to breathe...
It's twilight
now... very peaceful out in the desert. I take another deep breath, my
pace finally slowing to a walk as I set up the targets. The moon's full
tonight, so I won't need to ask Alex to turn on the outside lights. Good...
I really don't want to go back in there right now. Alex knows about my
problem, of course... and I think Grinder's figured it out, but I haven't
asked yet. Fidget, though, could never keep it from me if she did, so I
know she doesn't know. And even though Alex thinks I'm being unreasonable,
and I probably am, I just can't face telling her about it.
A hundred yards...
that's pretty good, without a scope. Taking a deep breath, I raise the
rifle to my shoulder, sight down the barrel and fire. Dead center, as usual.
I smile a little, feeling the wind run through my hair as I reload. I'm
a pretty good shot with most types of gun, but the rifle's always been
my favorite. 20-20, usually. I've even won a couple of competitions.
Sight, fire,
reload. Sight, fire, reload. The rhythm is simple, easy to concentrate
on. Focus on that, narrow your vision until there's nothing but the rifle
and the target. Slowly, I feel the tension seeping out of my muscles, the
clamor quieting in the back of my mind. I sigh in relief, resting the gun
against the ground. Another attack averted.
Panic attacks.
Anxiety disorder. People know the words, but the words don't come close
to expressing what it's actually like. Try to imagine walking around a
corner and being confronted with the biggest, ugliest, meanest palmetto
bug ever to come out of Florida, a cockroach the size of Jerry Springer.
Now, imagine you feel that way WITHOUT the cockroach. That's the panic
attack, kicking your adrenaline into overdrive on some mundane, stupid
trigger that has nothing to do with fight or flight at all. With me, it's
patterns-- complexity. I get caught up in the twists and turns... it's
like information overload. Some people have 'em when they flash back on
a trauma, others when they overload a sense. Sight, sound... I knew a guy
in high school who had one triggered by the Nordstrom's perfume counter.
So yeah, I have
panic attacks. Have since high school, actually. I hid them pretty well,
from everybody except Alex. That's what having friends gets you-- fewer
secrets. Not that I'm complaining. I couldn't even tell him about them,
though... he had to find me in the middle of one before he knew.
Alex asked me
once why I didn't get medication. There's a lot of reasons, I guess. For
one thing, I'm too stubborn. I've never wanted to admit that I couldn't
handle this stuff on my own. More than that, though, medicine is expensive.
And while I know my parents would have gotten it for me, they didn't really
have the money to spare. I could handle it myself, so I did.
Sure, we could
easily afford it now, but now we've got a new reason. Masters is a piranha,
ready to pounce on any sign of weakness that will make for sensationalism.
I've already got a rep for being high-strung-- if it gets out that I have
anxiety attacks, we'll be lucky not to lose all our sponsors. Nobody wants
to be connected with a team whose manager cracks under pressure. And with
all this Dr. X craziness, we've had enough trouble getting funding. I'm
not going to risk losing that.
And speaking
of that maniac... Gah. No wonder I had an attack. That swarm of trilobugs,
having to work with Dr. X, riding shotgun-- and I DO mean shotgun!-- for
Asazi the fern... and then there's getting Brandon back, which I still
don't entirely understand. Having to deal with Alex's crazy plans, InterCEPT
being a pain in the ass, trying to keep track of three teammates who don't
understand self-preservation... It's a wonder I made it as long as I did.
I could go back
in, I guess, but everyone else has their own problems to work through.
Alex, mainly. His world has repeatedly been turned upside down over the
past few months, and I think he needs to adjust to the idea that he's gonna
be settling down for a while. Brandon's back, and the coach is going to
be spending most of his time rehabilitating him for the foreseeable future.
I'm not sure who to worry about-- ah, hell, they're perfect for each other.
Hopefully they'll keep each other OUT of our hair.
You know, oddly
enough... for all the damage Coach Grey did to us, I do owe him something...
He was the one who first suggested I try out for the rifle team. Oh, sure,
he did it to keep me away from Alex-- shooting's the only sport Alex WON'T
do, and the only one I can't screw up. But still, even if he didn't know
it, the man did give me something I can focus on... something to keep me
sane when everything around me's going crazy.
Deep breath,
feel the wind, cool and dry. I'm not ready to go in yet... maybe I'll do
some more target practice. The moon's still bright and high...
And maybe I'm
not as calm as I think.